


the things left standing

by somebraveapollo



Category: Seirei no Moribito | Guardian of the Sacred Spirit
Genre: Celibate Character, Gen, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebraveapollo/pseuds/somebraveapollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was injured in many places," Shuga said. "But none of it matters. The important bruises have already faded."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the things left standing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



> Written for Roung Four of hc_bingo, prompt 'whipping/flogging'.

The initiate could not tell the passing of the time.

He tried to count the occasions when they brought him water, but he lost track after the ninth. He tried to measure the periods that passed between beatings, by following the beat of his heart, but his heart was as erratic as his breathing. The stick they'd last used had cracked his rib - he recognised the feeling from memory.

The initiate had stopped crying a while ago. He knew he was not yet ready to be released - he was still concerned with the pain, with the passing discomfort of his body. He had found comfort in the heavens, mapping constellations in his head - his fingers bending and pointing to follow the brightest nebulae.

When they noticed, they tied his hands back. Before they went numb, the initiate took note of the blood sliding down his palm, where the rope had chafed his previous scars. It was unimportant; his masters kept careful track of his body and would not allow him to die there and waste all the education he'd received.

The initiate inhaled, thinking past the pain in his rib, and worked on freeing his mind from its shackles.

* * *

Prince Chagum did not like history. He remembered the names of living things easily, and was as interested in the workings of the natural world as Shuga had once been. But names, and numbers, did not sit well with him, and he did not try as hard as he should have to remember them.

His Majesty examined him carefully, and Shuga's heart constricted when Chagum's voice trailed off in shame, as he was unable to set in order the events that had shaped their empire. It was an unworthy comparison, but Shuga could not help thinking that no boy could bear the disappointment of his father - that sadness was the same for princes and for drunkards' sons.

He pushed his forehead against the ground as the prince was chastised, but rose when His Majesty spoke his name.

"It was beyond time for my son to have a new tutor," said His Majesty. "I am not wholly displeased. But surely you agree that this was not sufficient - one of the royal family has a duty to learn our history with precision and respect."

Shuga agreed, but in silence.

"So, this time - the only time - I can give you a choice, Master Shuga. You were the one who worked with him, and you have the most insight to my son's character. Was his ignorance a result of his own laziness, or of your neglectful teaching?"

Only the truth would suffice, but Shuga chose his words with deliberation.

"If His Highness indulged in laziness, it was because I had allowed him to. As I failed to notice his lack of diligence, all the fault lies with me."

His Majesty nodded, sharp, and gestured to his guards.

Shuga was led, politely, to the whipping post in the courtyard. As he undressed, he was sharply aware of the royal family following - Prince Sagum's heavy breathing was discernible even from a distance. Prince Chagum attempted to speak, but was swiftly silenced by his brother.

Shuga allowed himself to close his eyes, and keep his mind guarded when the blows began to land. It would not do to make a sound. He felt his legs shaking as the lash reached down to his thighs. He stilled them, with old practice. The strikes landed slowly and bit deep, and sweat rolled down his back along with the blood.

When it was finished - earlier than he expected, but then His Majesty had always been as kind as he could be - Shuga was left to gather his dignity alone. His white robe stuck to his back - he would have to acquire a new one after this.

He stayed on his knees for a while, careful to avoid the darkening puddles of blood. He could not stand up immediately and risk fainting. Just as he felt his strength return - he needed to get water, quickly, or the fainting would be inevitable - his Prince returned to the courtyard, and Shuga remained bowing.

His Highness was still crying, choking on tears, and he stood right in front of Shuga.

"I'm so sorry," he gasped out. "I'm so sorry you were punished for me." 

Shuga was still his tutor - it was his job to explain what had happened. But his mouth was dry and his tongue was heavy. The dizziness he had defeated was returning. 

"Shuga? Can you forgive me?"

Again, he could only speak the truth. "There is nothing to forgive, Highness."

The prince stood closer still, and against all propriety he reached out to touch Shuga's sweat-drenched hair...

and Shuga, in his weakness, leaned into the caress.

* * *

Shuga had forgotten, or had never really understood, that people were different on the borders of the Empire. They did not fear the law there as much as they did their superstitions.

When the hail destroyed their crops, it made sense for them to think that Shuga had brought it on them, with his strange instruments and experiments. They came with stones and dragged him away from his writing.

The stones they threw were small and accurate, and Shuga curled up on the dusty street and waited, counted. None of his injuries were dangerous so far - he thought it was possible that, even here, people would not want to kill a servant of His Majesty. Perhaps he would be able to reason with them when their rage passed.

But then he heard Balsa arrive with the clatter of horseshoes, and Tanda covered Shuga's body as Balsa yelled and threatened. The villagers feared her - even here, common sense won over superstition - and allowed him to be carried away. For now, their safety had been won without violence.

He let Tanda and Balsa lead him to the room that they rented. He sat down and waited as Tanda tended to the cuts and bruises on face. His lip had been split somehow - all of his injuries were of that severity. Passing, unimportant.

"Please," Tanda said. "Will you let me see the damage they did? Can you remove your robes?"

"I can wait outside," Balsa said, and her voice was calm now as though she had not just threatened to burn the village down.

"I trust you," Shuga said, then stopped. These two people had accepted him entirely, and accepted his vows, but they'd found ways to show their affection for him without ruining his chastity. "It is only, these injuries are not severe."

"Please," Tanda said, brushing Shuga's hair away from his face. "It would calm me."

There was already so much he could not do for his friends - he would not let his pride deprive them of their peace.

He disrobed briskly, surely, aware of their scrutiny. He sat down next to Tanda and caught his gaze.

"You have many scars," Tanda said, soft as though Shuga was sick. "I did not think - I expected something different."

Shuga did not own a mirror; even under the new Holy Sage vanity was still discouraged. He could only guess that his back was a map of whipping scars and sword marks. 

"Who hurt you in this way?" Balsa asked, still so very calm. Tanda took to tending the fresh bruises left by the stones.

"I was injured in many places," Shuga said. "But none of it matters. The important bruises have already faded." He remembered his father's boot when he sent him away from home, and the hilt of Balsa's spear when she told him he had failed. And later, a different memory but connected somehow, the ghost of Balsa's kiss on his brow, and of Tanda's hand on his shoulder, when they decided to befriend him, despite all he'd done and failed to do. 

"May I touch them?" Balsa said. "Your marks?"

Shuga was not sure what was being asked of him, but he saw no reason to decline. 

Her fingers were narrow, and sharper than Tanda's. Shuga loved studying her hands - she had callouses on her palms that contrasted with the soft skin of her wrist. In his weakest moments, Shuga would think about those palms, caressing his face or holding his hand. 

But this was new, the sensation of touching without purpose, and she ran her hands up and down his back. Warm, soft Tanda soon joined her, and his fingers were wet with whatever ointment he'd used on Shuga's scars. 

It felt ridiculous, in a way, as though he was a horse being petted by its owners, but it did not feel sinful. 

"Will you lie down," Tanda asked, brisk healer's manner now gone. "Please? I would like to relax you."

Shuga obeyed and lay on his stomach. 

Tanda's careful hands now moved with purpose, unknotting Shuga's muscles and passing lightly over his ribs. It was immediate, but it was not uncomfortable. Balsa sat beside them and Shuga waited for her to tell a story - to sink into reminisces with Tanda as they usually did. But she was quiet. She brushed his hair away from his face, and he realised with some difficulty that she was braiding it.

She was patient and sure as she made small braids in his hair, and he had the silly thought that she might have been a weaver, had she been raised as other women had. He thought to tell her so - he knew her enough now to see it would amuse her - but he did not want to break the odd, gentle silence of the room. He reached out instead, and his hand found her knee. He caressed it clumsily and lightly, a poor imitation of the circles Tanda was still drawing on him. His hand was not moved away, and he let himself fall asleep, safe between them.


End file.
